


Just in Time

by MorbidbyDefault



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009) RPF, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: F/M, Gen, WhoLockLock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:39:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1342765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorbidbyDefault/pseuds/MorbidbyDefault
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has really done it this time,and poor Molly considers her options:Staying and putting up with a man who will never treat her any differently,or leaving with a man who's life is filled with even more danger than the Consulting Detective's. Meanwhile,Sherlock wakes up to find that he is in some serious hot water with...himself. Crossover: Wholocklock. Eventual Sherlolly!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

So this is a prompt from the ever-lovely SammyKatz. She asked for this awhile back, and I'm just now finding the time to dedicate to it's awesomeness. Anyway, I hope she enjoys this, as is the case with all of you. :) 

I do not own anything! All characters and are owned by the BBC/creators of mentioned characters. 

Enjoy!

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“What?” his curt voice broke out, almost with a harsh irritability behind it.

“I said, maybe it wasn't the husband. I mean, he seemed genuinely distraught when he came in to identify her body. He couldn't even manage to give me an absolute 'yes' for five minutes.” she shrugged her shoulders, looking up at him from her side of the shared work station.

“People are inherently good liars.” Sherlock responded. She sighed, before standing and walking around to be beside him.

“Look at the evidence, Sherlock. The husband has rheumatoid arthritis in both hands. He can't possibly have held the knife firmly enough to stab his wife twenty times. It had to be someone else.” Molly ended her own list of reasons why she felt Mr. Suthers was innocent. They had been arguing the points for the past thirty minutes, before Molly was finally able to make a point valid enough, forcing Sherlock to do the impossible, admit he was wrong. Of course, backing the detective into such a defensive corner only seemed likely, and Molly soon found herself at the end of a barrage of disdainful and cruel deductions from his lips.

“And tell me, Molly, do your insurmountable observational skills and knowledge also allow you to see the fact that the husband was also cheating on his wife? Or the fact that he was stealing money from her trust fund to pay for his secret alcohol addiction? While he may not have killed her himself, the motive speaks volumes higher as to the likelihood that he hired someone to do the dirty work for him. Obviously, you have figured these variables into your reasoning why Mr. Suthers is innocent. You must have, or you wouldn't have bothered to argue the point in the first place. No? Honestly, why don't you go back to your little corner in the lab and let me work in peace? We both know it's the smarter option, and you so desperately want to be smart, don't you? So just shut up, and go away.” Sherlock had finished his tirade, immediately regretting the last of his bitter words. He'd expected her to rush out in tears, or at least slap him across his cheek. However, he did not expect her to do as he commanded. Silently, Molly made her way to the door, and pushed it open. He looked up when he saw her hesitate, before mumbling something, and finally stepping through the swinging door. She'd not intended for him to hear her, he was sure, but he had anyway. 

“Okay. If that's what you want. Maybe it is time to leave.” Sherlock didn't quite understand the meaning behind her heavily burdened reply, but he would come to learn soon enough.

OoOo

No sooner had he stepped through the door to 221B, and he was already being scolded by his very cross flatmate.

“You git! You've really done it now. I just got off the phone with Mary, who said she ran into Molly at Bart's. She was crying her eyes out, apparently something about you calling her stupid and telling her to bugger off. Why do you have to be so terrible to her? All because she tries to help, and she figured out a tiny detail to a case that's been bugging you for weeks now.” John yelled at the quiet man currently reclined on the sofa. When Sherlock gave no reply, John tossed his arms up in defeat, before stalking to the door.

“Fine. Fine, you be a git if you want. Just don't be surprised when that girl is gone from your life, because you'll be the one who drove her away. I'm meeting up with Mary to see if we can mend some of the damage you've done this time.” The army doctor grabbed his coat, before barreling down the staircase and out the front door. Sherlock sighed out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, before he closed his eyes and entered his mind palace for some much needed organized thinking.

OoOo

“I'm sure he didn't mean it like that. You know how he gets.” Mary said, trying to soothe her friend. Molly sniffled, before sighing out and shaking her head.

“He doesn't 'get' that way. He's always like that, and that won't ever change. In all the potential universes, I'd bet he's the only Sherlock Holmes who treats his pathologist this badly.” Molly bit down on her lip a bit, before she stood and paced in front of her sofa. Mary looked on, her concern growing for the distressed woman.

“You've been watching too many of those sci-fi shows again. Come on, I know he's a git, but you know he doesn't mean any of what he says.” This seemed to stop the pathologist in her tracks, before she collapsed onto the floor. Her muffled words were missed by the blond nurse, who was now leaning over in her seat to hear her better.

“What?”

“I said, then why does he say the things he says? All the time. After...even after everything, and I still obviously mean nothing to him.” Molly's soft and desperate tone wavered with her second bout of tears. Mary frowned deeply, before she rushed to Molly's side and pulled her into a hug. With a free hand, she pulled out her phone, sending a text to John to warn him not to come.

'Why not? - JW' Came the response. Mary's frown grew to a scowl of contempt as she sent another message.

'You're going back home and knocking some sense into that arsehole. She thinks she's nothing to him. -Mary'

John read over the text a few times. Partly to comprehend what it actually said, but mostly to build up the reserve of absolute rage to unleash on his moronic best friend.

“I'm sorry. Could you turn around and take me back? There's been a change of plans.” John asked the cabbie, before he sat back in his seat. He decided to send off two separate messages. The first, to his girlfriend.

'Tell Molly I'm fixing it. Remind her that she counts. I'll see you tonight. - JW'

The second was sent as a warning, a command, to the git himself.

'Stay where you are. We need to have a talk. Don't you dare run away from this, either. - JW'

OoOo

Sherlock walked out of the corridor of his mind palace to emerge back into reality. However, upon opening his eyes, he realized something was definitely wrong with his surroundings. It looked similar to his own living room of the flat. It was even cluttered to the extent that his was, complete with a skull on the mantle, and a jack knife holding his post in place. The one thing that was unusual – utterly odd being the grandest of understatements, was the curly haired man squatting directly in front of him, light blue eyes meeting his own.

“Ah, you're finally awake. Wonderful. We can begin. Tea?” He spoke, his voice a regal tone, mixed with the slightest hint of sarcastic indifference. Sherlock looked around the room, his eyes resting on the silver tray on the floor. The small ceramic pot let out a slow stream of evaporation from its spout. The matching cups sat on either side, leaving just enough space for a small sugar bowl to sit on the last free space of the tray. Sherlock returned his gaze to the wild haired man, who was awaiting his answer. 

“Um, yes. Thank you.” he said in a tired voice. The other man nodded his head, before turning and filling the cups carefully.

“You obviously have questions.” he said as he brought one of the cups around to offer to Sherlock.

“Yes. First of all, where am I? The walls seem to be the same dimensions as my own flat, but the paper is different, as are the shelves and the mason work around the fireplace. What is the address of this place?” Sherlock asked as he sat up, taking a sip of the tea. The man across from his smiled knowingly, before quirking a brow.

“You already know the answer to that. Better still, you know who lives here, and by extension, who I am. So...?” he motioned for Sherlock to state his deductions, or rather, his theories. After another brief glance around the room, Sherlock slowly began.

“This is still 221B, though it is somehow different, reflecting an older time. Based on the setting, I would say that it's still my flat. My violin is by the window, along with my skull placed on the mantle. But my coat and scarf are gone. What have you done with them?” his fingers pointed out each item, as he declared their locations. However, as he noticed his own coat and scarf missing, the detective took note of another coat in its place. This one, while still a charcoal color, was much shorter. Beside it hung another coat, this one even shorter, a black leather material that hardly fit the assumed aging of the rest of the items around him. Sherlock looked around, searching for his own Bel Staff. He returned his gaze to the other man, who was scratching at the stubble on his chin. 

“Oh, come now, you know where the clues lead.” he said with a sigh. Sherlock's mind was churning, yet refusing to believe the conclusion it kept arriving at. 

“But...that's impossible.” Sherlock whispered.

“Once you eliminate the impossible, no matter how improbable...” the scruffed man spoke.

“...Must be true.” Sherlock finished with him, his eyes growing wide as he looked up at him.

“You're...” he managed to gasp out. 

“Yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes, as are you.” the man said with a grin. Sherlock's gaze widened further, and he set his teacup down with a shaking hand. Holmes stood, his hand reaching to the small table behind him and grabbing a leather switch. A riding crop. As he stood, he slowly took to pacing, only occasionally looking Sherlock's way.

“As I said before, you obviously have questions. However, I feel I cannot explain accurately the circumstances and reasons why you are here. Let me go and fetch the Doctor.” Holmes held up a hand, signifying that he'd only be a moment. So, as he quickly left the room, Sherlock waited. 

'How could John be better at explaining this than...myself?' he wondered to himself. He heard the sound of his counterpart returning, and a second set of footsteps following behind. Sherlock's sights set to the doorway, his mind anticipating what this John Watson might look like. He had imagined someone with similar attire to the Holmes character. So, it came as a great shock to him when he found himself gazing at a tall, lithe man with hardly any hair atop his head, a slightly larger nose, and unusually large ears. This man was definitely out of place, just as he was. As if knowing Sherlock's oncoming question, the man spoke.

“Hello Sherlock. I'm the Doctor.” The flashing smile he gave was met with an unsure arched brow.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Well there you have it. Chapter one is done! Finally! Lol. Anyway, I hope you will all enjoy this story as it continues, and please feel free to leave feedback/reviews/favorites/follows...because I very much enjoy hearing from you all. :D Thank you so much, and to my dear SammyKatz...HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Hope you like this story, considering it's for you. ;) Alright, laters!


	2. Chapter Two

YAY! So, I'm so glad that this has received such a good response for just having one chapter out. I shall try my hardest to answer your questions...in due time of course, and I hope you will all stick around for the whole thing. :) Again, just a huge thanks to everyone supporting me in your ways, it makes me so very happy. Special thanks to SammyKatz for this lovely prompt. I hope I'm doing your idea justice. :)

Right, I do not own anything from the BBC, Sherlock, Doctor Who, or otherwise. Sadly. 

Onto Chapter Two!!!

Enjoy!

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“You? You're the John Watson of this....world? You hardly fit with the rest of the surroundings of this flat, let alone your...friend, here.” Sherlock gestured a hand to the other him, his gaze not shifting from this out of place Watson. Said man chuckled a bit, before shaking his head.

“No, you misunderstand. I'm not Doctor Watson. I'm The Doctor. Just The Doctor,” he replied cheerfully.

“The Doctor...? Doctor of 'what', exactly?” Sherlock asked skeptically. He watched as the two men exchanged an amused look.

“I told you he'd react this way. It's best to just say it, and let him sort out the details for himself. Then we can proceed with the more pressing matters at hand,” Holmes stated, his eyes moving from the Doctor back to Sherlock.

“Alright then. Sherlock, my name is The Doctor. I'm a Time Lord. You're currently at 221B Baker Street in London...in 1895. It's very important that you speak with, well...you, about the important matter of your friend, Molly Hooper.” The Doctor pointed to Holmes, who briefly nodded, before he went back to flexing the leather crop in his hands. Sherlock's eyes widened a bit.

“Molly? What does any of this have to do with Molly?” Sherlock tried not to sound too shocked at the mention of her name. He also tried to ignore the guilty feeling that was quickly settling in his stomach.

“Oh, it has everything to do with her, Sherlock,” The Doctor responded. Sherlock opened his mouth, fully prepared to demand an explanation, when the doorway was filled with yet another person's form.

This man was slender, fit with a clean-pressed suit. His face was clean shaven, apart from the well groomed moustache above his lips. The blond hair on his head was combed in a pristine fashion, very similar to how John wore his. John Watson; Sherlock knew in an instant that this man was the army doctor to his other person. He looked around for a moment, eyes finally settling on Sherlock.

“Ah, so you two decided to go through with it anyway,” he said, giving a sigh of defeat. Dr. Watson stepped further into the room, nodding in acknowledgment to the obviously confused detective.

“I'm sorry, I did try to tell them not to interfere this way. But he insists on the necessity of it.” He motioned to The Doctor, who smiled proudly.

“And he, well...you surely understand, given the um, well, given the circumstance of things, why he agreed.” Watson chuckled, before shaking his head. The three men had gone to arguing amongst themselves, Watson admonishing them for their behavior, The Doctor and Holmes both presenting their reasons for doing so. They completely forgot the 21st century man across the room. Sherlock decided to do get up and do what he did best, investigate. He wandered throughout the flat, in search of answers to his growing pile of questions.

He first walked down the hall, heading toward the room that would be his, were he at home. However, it was becoming quite clear to him that he wasn't in his version of 221B. He entered the room, finding that, in place of his king size bed and simple lamp, there was a chaotic mess of papers, files, books, and glass beakers. All were strewn across the long tables placed strategically in the middle of the room. Sherlock immediately saw the advantages to their layout, allowing access to any given angle of the items scattered on the table tops. The detective eyed a newspaper amongst the collected stacks, and he fished it from its pile. Looking at the date was the first of his priorities. Sherlock glanced to the top, his head feeling immediately faint at the printed text.

“October 27, 1895...” he muttered, his voice laced with an obvious air of bewilderment. He looked around the room again, this time noticing a large blue door in the corner. Sherlock walked toward it, reading the white placard that sat embedded in the dark wood.

PULL TO OPEN

Those, ironically, were the words that stuck out to him the most. He decided that the added questions of what a Police Box door was doing in a London flat...in 1895, was too much to handle at the moment. 'Pull to Open,’ the instructions read, so Sherlock did.

Nothing. Not even a little budge. Sherlock scowled as he tried again, this time slapping his hand against the door when it refused to give. A strange feeling crept over him, and, as if it were teasing him, the door slowly creaked open. The detective's jaw set into a jutted frown, before he walked into the next room.

It was a mess. Wires streamed down from the ceiling, toggles and switches scattered about a center console. Sherlock paused, realizing that this room was just as out of place with the assumed time period as he was. A brief thought crossed his mind.

'Perhaps it’s some sort of holographic technique...' he wondered. No. The building evidence was too much to overlook with a simple parlor trick. Determined to discover what he was doing here, Sherlock set about discovering the large room. He looked over the main grid, trying to decipher the purpose of each button, lever, and crank. As he rounded the circular epicenter, something pulled his attention immediately away from its prior thoughts. There, stuck between the small seam of a random keyboard and a long line of levers, was a photo. It didn't appear very old, despite the slight tearing around one of the edges. Sherlock pulled the small portrait from its place, his eyes widening yet again. Her smile seemed brighter than he'd ever seen it before, eyes shining with effervescent happiness and charm. A furrow set to his brow as a new and dreadfully deep question set to his mind.

Just what had his pathologist got herself mixed up in?

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Well, tralalalala. There's another chapter down. I'm going to try get as much of this story pumped out in the next...oh gosh...2 days...as I can. I'm participating in NANOWRIMO...so I will be mildly absent from my usual fanfic writing for the month of November. Anyway, I promise I will bring you as much of this story as I can in the next 48 hours, so you aren't left hanging too much. A huge thanks to MizJoely for looking over this chapter for me, and thank you to all of you for leaving such wonderful reviews. I hope you continue to do so. Leave me your thoughts, questions, advice, predictions, all of it! Righto, until next time...LATERS!


	3. Chapter Three

So, long time – no see, eh? Lol, just wanted to post a quick thank you to all of you who are still interested in reading this story. I thank you for your patience whilst I attempted NaNoWriMo for the first time, and now... SOME MORE WHOLOCKLOCK!!!

BTW...I don't own anything, Not the Who, not the Lock...and not the second Lock either. I own nothing.

((Hope it's worth the wait, my dear SammyKatz. Love ya!))

Chapter 3:

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As Sherlock stared down at the small picture of Molly Hooper, the sound of approaching footsteps could be heard. The voices of the three men sounded closer and closer, though he hardly paid them any mind. 

“Here he is! I told you he'd figure it out. Of course, the TARDIS could have helped him. She is a bit of a flirt,” the Doctor said, a mischievous smirk hinting on his lips. He then saw the shocked look on the man's face, and quickly followed the trail from his face and down his arm, until his sights landed on the wallet-sized photo in his hand. He stepped over to join Sherlock, a fond smile suddenly gracing his face.

“That was the last time. I took her to a little cafe' in Paris. 1800. She loved the New Year, and insisted I take a photo of her to mark the occasion.” The Doctor's smile grew as he shared the memory, and his face looked up to see a mildly angry expression adorned on Sherlock's.

“What? It was her idea,” the Doctor said defensively. He soon realized that Sherlock's expression was anger, but the emotion was based entirely on confusion. He stepped closer, placing a firm hand on the detective's shoulder. 

“I'm a Time Lord. I can travel through time and space. I know your Molly Hooper, she's one of the better companions I've spent time with. This is my TARDIS, and this is how you've come to 1895, in a different universe, of course,” he said, a silly grin punctuating his sentence. Sherlock was silent, resolving to look across the room to his other self instead of the man immediately next to him.

“This universe is incomplete, in the fact that I do not have the luxury of a pathologist,” Holmes explained. Before Sherlock could ask his question, the other man standing beside his counterpart seemed to answer it. 

“I occasionally do the post-mortem inspections, but Scotland Yard has decided that my 'preliminary findings' need review,” Watson said, a bitter tinge in his voice. 

“Well, that is what happens when you pronounce a man dead, who later returns to life,” Holmes argued subtly. The response from Watson was a glare, followed by a heavy sigh.

“Anyway, the point of this is that you have, at your disposal, quite the commodity in Miss Hooper.” He continued on. Sherlock eyed them all warily, before he answered. 

“Yes... yes I'm aware. Molly's skills and accuracy are highly envied throughout the whole of London, and several other countries. This isn't exactly news to me, gentlemen.” Sherlock stopped, his eyes full of awaiting expectation. The three looked at each other, each sharing a different expression. Finally, the Doctor spoke, his voice quieter than before, and filled with a slightly angry conviction.

“Then why, might I ask, do you insist on continually berating and belittling her? She's nothing but helpful, and yet you criticize her, both on a professional and personal level. In short, you make my Molly cry too much, and I'm going to put a stop to it.” Sherlock felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, the sentimental title stirring something terribly possessive within him.

“Your Molly? Forgive me, Doctor, if I don't quite believe you. Molly's never mentioned you, and even if she had; why are you only now making your existence known?” He quipped, the fierce tone clear in his words. The Doctor stood back a bit, his arms crossing over his chest, and his lips curling into a pleased grin.

“Take it as a sign of her loyalty then. The last time I saw her, I asked that she keep me a secret. Apparently, her reliability is quite good!” He responded happily. This only provoked the jealousy in Sherlock more, his ego clearly being bruised at the thought of sharing his pathologist. 

“Yes, she's very consistent. That doesn't tell me why I'm here though. Nor does it tell me why you have a photo of Molly Hooper, in this room, or how I got here in the first place. I'm only on the assumption that here is even real, considering I barely know where here is.” The irritated detective practically spat out the words, wanting his annoyance to be made clear. Holmes let out a quick laugh, before an amused grin settled on his features. The Doctor sighed, holding up his hands in mock surrender. 

“All will be explained, in due time,” he said, pausing just long enough to give the impression that it was, of course, in his due time. “I will tell you how you got here, that seems the easiest one to start with. This 'room', as you call it, isn't just a room. This is the TARDIS.” The Doctor motioned around himself, his arms swinging with a grand gesture. He turned around, face bright with glee. His expression dropped when it was met with a vacant stare.

“Your what?” Sherlock didn't seem too impressed, though he was slightly curious. The Doctor let out a huff, before he dramatically stomped over to the detective.

“TARDIS. Time and Relative Dimension in Space. She's a space ship! Not just some other room in this flat,” he said, again waiting for some great reaction from the human. He was again disappointed, when Sherlock merely nodded, before he sighed indifferently.

“It's how you got here. To 1895 London. The TARDIS travels through time...” the Doctor continued to explain, before the witty man picked up in his stead.

“...and space, apparently. Fine, I'll accept that as a plausible reason for how I suddenly find myself in this situation. That doesn't explain any of my other questions. Why have you brought me here? What good will talking to this other version of myself do, if he has no knowledge on the apparent subject at hand, which is my pathologist?” Sherlock genuinely had no clue what he was about to get himself into, but the sudden frown on the Doctor's face told him it wasn't something he should be arguing so freely. 

“Fine. I don't like to give away my plans, because they can always change. But, since you asked so nicely,” he muttered with a sneer, “I'll tell you. You're here, in 1895, because this is where I am the moment one Molly Hooper calls me to come and rescue her. The man standing opposite you, Mr. Holmes, has more insight into the matter than you would think, considering this is the first place I bring Molly after picking her up, and before you go asking me to take you back so you can assist her, I'll tell you. She's phoning me to get away from you.” Sherlock's several questions were all cut off at the point, before the final punch was delivered. His stomach fell to his feet with the statement, and he wasn't entirely sure he was breathing.

“B-but, why would she want to... why would she leave?” He asked, his voice barely finding the power to ask. The Doctor let out a long sigh, shaking his head as if there were some tragic tale he was about to unfurl. 

“Because, Sherlock, you told her to.”

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

And there we have it, another chapter down, several more to come. Leave me a review and tell me what you think! Questions you have, predictions, happy little smileys. ;) (like that) Anyway, thank you all so much for the support, and I will see you next chapter! Later, my little darklings!


	4. Chapter Four

Well, this is a much overdue chapter update. I must beg that you forgive me, and I hope that this chapter makes up for my belated updating of it! Thank you all so much for the reviews and for continuing to support my quirky little habits. Lol. You're all amazing!

I do not own any of the following: BBC, Sherlock Holmes (RDJ or BC style) Doctor Who, The TARDIS, Molly Hooper, 221B Baker Street, or any of the places/people mentioned in this fic. 

That is all.

We tread on!

OoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Ten Years Previous:

She stepped out of the TARDIS, and turned back to look at him, her teary eyes not matching her smile.

“Will you come see me again?” Molly asked, sniffling back the moisture that settled in her nose. The Doctor smiled brightly at her, before snatching her mobile from her hands. With a wave of his sonic screwdriver over the device, his smile grew wider. He tossed it back to her. It looked just the same. However, the proud grin his face said that something had changed about it. The Doctor laughed as she struggled to catch it in her small hands.

“There. If you should ever need me, all you need to do is phone me,” The Doctor nodded curtly, before stepping closer to her, “any button will do. I'll answer as soon as I can.” Molly looked at the phone, then back up to her silly friend. She moved suddenly, throwing her arms around him. The Doctor chuckled, a bit sad to part ways with yet another loyal friend. After a minute, he gently pushed her away, and turned to go back inside. As the TARDIS rumbled and shook, Molly tearfully watched on, only deciding to return to her own home once the blue box was completely gone from sight. She clutched the phone tightly in her hand, keeping the thought in her mind to always carry it with her. 

Present Day:

The old, brick-like mobile sat on top of her duvet, her eyes straying between it and the floor. She had placed it in the drawer of her nightstand a year after meeting Sherlock, deciding that perhaps she wouldn't need her funny friend so much.

Perhaps she had been wrong in thinking that.

The words the detective had so harshly spat out at her rang in her ears, the memory and wounds too fresh to simply ignore. He'd dismissed her before, sure. But something about this time made all the others seem like petty little tantrums. None of them had made her feel like this, made her feel so broken and worthless.

“You so desperately want to be smart.”

“So just shut up, and go away.” 

She wiped away a set of tears that had trickled from her soft, brown eyes. As Molly curled her legs up, her knees tucked under her chin, she reached over and picked the old mobile up. She stared at the seemingly dead screen, and wondered if it would even still work after all these years. Part of her wondered if he would still be there to receive her call. Ten years was an awfully long time, and after she'd experienced his companionship, she knew the likelihood that he might not even be... 

The decision following that thought had been easy. Molly pressed down on the power button, watching as the screen attempted to light itself up. The blue screen flickered to life, revealing a small logo for a now abandoned company. A breath of relief washed over her, until the small device powered down again. The urgent need to find the charging cord became the pathologist's first priority. 

OoOo

He hadn't moved or said anything in a great while, confusion etched deeply into his brow as if it had been carved there. The Doctor stood by, waiting for it to sink in, waiting for this silly human to grasp the weight his words carried. Finally, Sherlock spoke, slowly, hesitantly, his voice only floating quietly from his pursed lips.

“B...but, she knows I don't ever mean it that way.” He looked up, glancing from the other Holmes and Watson, back to The Doctor, and finally down to the picture of the young Molly Hooper, her smile ripping another hole of guilt through him.

“Does she, Mr. Holmes? If you recall, you've not exactly had the best track record of making that sweet lady feel very important. It's a wonder she hasn't called me sooner. Patience of a saint, I've always thought. Anyway, it hardly matters now, doesn't it? We've got work to do. Now, I believe Mr. Holmes here has recently taken on a case. A rather serious one, and one I think you'll definitely find intriguing.” He smiled at Sherlock, completely ignoring the stunned expression on the young man's face. Before Sherlock could argue, the men were walking away, back into the heart of 221B. He clutched the photo in his hand, his thumb unconsciously grazing over the top of the image of his pathologist. 

'How could she think I meant it?' 

Sherlock walked behind the three men, lost in his own thoughts until he took a glance up at the wall of the room they now occupied. In a setting very similar to his own home, the wall had been covered with photographs, files, maps, letters and other documents, all linked together with bits of bright red string. However, this web was massively more intricate than his usually were, and stemmed throughout the whole room. 

Needless to say, he was rather impressed.

“I see you've made good use of my old office.” Watson said, a slight agitation in his voice. The other man had disappeared behind a partition in the room, still speaking to them.

“Do you like my spider's web?” He asked Sherlock, who could only nod as he drank it all in. He slowly approached the wall, looking over its finely mapped details.

“Follow that strand.” Sherlock placed his fingers along the thread, allowing it to pass through them as he inched his way down the line. Watson was close behind, equally taking in the information. The Doctor, however, stood back in the room, a simple, knowing smile hinting at his lips. Holmes began to speak again from behind the partition.

“Question. What do a scandal involving an Indian cotton tycoon, the overdose of a Chinese opium trader, bombings in Strasbourg and Vienna, and the death of a steel magnate in America all have in common?” Sherlock had soon reached the end of the ribbon's trail, leading to a jackknife that had been plunged into the center of a man's photograph. He was just beginning to sort out the details given for this puzzle, when the doctor beside him spoke.

“Well, according to your diorama, Professor James Moriarty.” 

Sherlock's head whipped around, his eyes wide with shock. He locked onto The Doctor, who was nodding his head, a simple shrug rocking his shoulders. Sherlock tuned into what Watson was saying, suddenly needing to know everything about this world's consulting criminal.

“Mathematical genius, celebrated author and lecturer...”

“Boxing champion at Cambridge,” Holmes continued the list, “where he made friends with our current Prime Minister.” 

“Do you have any evidence to substantiate your claim?” Watson asked, his tone mocking the pompous tone of a judge. Holmes suddenly emerged from behind the room separator, going straight for the web as well. His hand grabbed onto a string, quickly leading it to a newspaper clipping on the adjacent wall.

“This,” he said with a chuckle. Sherlock and Watson looked to each other, before going to read the article.

Dr. Hoffmanstahl's Fatal Heart Attack

The ribbon had connected to the particular title on the page, even though further up Sherlock was reading a separate headline.

BOMB DISASTER AVERTED!  
Auction House Escapes Catastrophe.  
NO EXPLANATION.

Sherlock eyed his counterpart, a sudden suspicion rising to his mind. He listened as the two men discussed the dead man's career in medicine, obviously receiving accolades from the decorated soldier and Holmes' friend, Dr. Watson. 

“Just the other day I averted an explosion that was intended for him.” Holmes had answered his theory about the first article on the paper, and Sherlock grinned a bit. 

“Says here he died of a heart attack,” Watson responded, before he took to looking over the rest of the map. Holmes moved around him, slightly nudging Sherlock out of the way, much to the modern man's disapproval. 

“Has all my instruction been for not? You still read the official statement and believe it. It's a game, dear man, a shadowy game. We're playing cat and mouse, the professor and I. Cloak and dagger.” His voice spoke with a hint of dramatic flair, and Sherlock could almost hear John chuckling in his head, no doubt comparing the two of them for the amusement of his blog.

“You're drinking embalming fluid.” Watson looked to his friend, before looking to Sherlock, obviously wondering if he did the same.

“Ooh, yes. Care for a drop?” Holmes shot back, raising his glass to both of them, an almost manic smile on his face. Sherlock looked back to The Doctor, and decided to let the two men banter as he addressed the man who had brought him here. 

“Why? How could facing up against another version of that psychopath possibly be what you had in mind upon bringing me here?” He hissed, the anger clearly reflecting in his eyes. The Doctor gave him a pointed look, before raising his brow in an almost playful expression.

“That would be telling. I can't do that, you know. Creates a paradox if you know what's going to happen. Paradoxes are bad things,” The Doctor nodded his head, as if it would drive his point home.

“And yet you've brought together two of the same man. Now tell me, Doctor, how is that not creating a paradox?” 

“Well, you're not the same man. Obviously there's two of you. You don't even look alike, apart from the hair, maybe. Actually, I can see the similarities now that you mention it.” He chuckled a bit, pointing between the two Holmes men. Sherlock swatted his finger away from his face, before scowling and speaking in a quiet tone.

“Again, I must ask, even if I am to somehow solve a case involving the same criminal mastermind, in another dimension or universe, whatever you claim this bloody place to be, what does this have to do with Molly?” The Doctor looked up to the slightly taller man, tilting his head to the side to look at Sherlock as if he had grown an extra limb. The answer must have been obvious, though the detective couldn't see what it possibly was.

“Everything, Sherlock. She has everything to do with it.”

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Dang, that ended up escalating a lot more quickly than I thought! Sorry again for the major hiatus, but it would appear that I am back. So hopefully I won't keep you waiting 3 months for the next chapter. I hope you all like it, and I hope you'll let me know what you thought. :D Thanks again so much for all the support!


	5. Chapter Five

Woot! Another fantastic chapter receiving. Thank you all so much for enjoying this story! Sorry it's taken longer than I hoped to get this story on the roll, but I hope you've been patient with me and continue to read it. :D

I do not own Sherlock Holmes, The BBC, Molly Hooper, Doctor Who, or any of the characters/places portrayed in this story.

Huzzah for another chapter! Here we go: into the vortex, as it were.

ENJOY!

Chapter Five:

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He barged through the open door of 221B, ready to pummel his best friend. Fists clenched as he prepared himself to take on the perpetual man-child that was Sherlock Holmes, the army doctor stomped his way into the living room, to find it was empty.

“Damn it...Sherlock! Where the bloody hell are you? I told you to stay put!” He marched through the flat, noting how everything seemed to be in its place, apart from the detective. Picking his phone from his pocket, he dialed Sherlock's number, and held the mobile up to his ear; his patience was just thick enough to not screech into the receiver whenever his absent friend answered.

OoOo

They sat cramped in the tiny buggy-like automotive, Sherlock and The Doctor both shoved behind Holmes and Watson as they made their way toward the other side of Olde London. Sherlock took in the sites, spotting the parallels between this place, and the city he called home. Several structures were the same, and he was pleased to see that some of his favourite spots had been transferred to this world too.

“Will your beard be with us all night?” The man driving asked. Holmes scratched lightly at the false beard that was adorning his face, before turning to look at his friend.

“I'll remove it once we're south of Trafalgar Square.” They bumped along the cobblestone streets, the car turning and twisting with the curve of the road.

“If you believe Moriarty has you under observation, isn't this a bit conspicuous?” Watson asked. Sherlock glanced between the two men, his gaze falling to the back of the doctor's head. He really was just as dense as John was sometimes. It made for just another added parallel to his growing list.

“It's so overt, it's covert.” Holmes explained with a snobbish air to his voice. They drove past Trafalgar Square, and the impatience in Watson's voice was obvious to the entire group of them when he mentioned as such to Holmes.

“You must be safe by now.” 

Holmes removed the false beard, and took a moment to reacquaint his face with the cool, evening air. His glance moved over to his companion, and continued to stay there for several moments. Sherlock looked to The Doctor, who was sitting back in amusement. He grinned like a little boy, and motioned for Sherlock to remain silent as he watched the other two interact. Silence surrounded them, until the detective grunted out with a tragic sounding moan. The military man next to him scoffed.

“Why are you looking at me with such concern?”

“I'm so very worried. Your vitality's been drained from you. Marriage is the end, I tell you,” Holmes said. 

“I think of it as the beginning,” Watson counter argued. The two bantered back and forth, Holmes presenting the terrifying viewpoint of marrying, while Watson defended the better points. Sherlock found himself agreeing with his alternate self on several of the points, until the two detectives were presented with a startling question.

“Who wants to die alone?”

Sherlock paused, waiting for the answer to come from the Sherlock of this world. When the thick tension broke, he couldn't help but feel a heaviness in his chest, realizing that neither he nor the other had a suitable answer, or solution to that puzzling question.

“So, we'll have a good old-fashioned romp tonight, you'll settle down, have a family, and I'll...die alone.” Holmes made a point to make his words sound truly wounded in their refrain. Sherlock knew the parlour trick well, he'd used it several times to convince John to stay for an extra client or just a round of deductions. However, much like his own friend, the other John wasn't buying into the pity party Holmes was throwing out.

“Yes, that's about it.” he said. The buggy bumped along, though it drew slower and slower speeds as they reached their destination.

“Perhaps it's better for one to die alone than to live life in eternal purgatory.” The car had stopped, and yet neither of the two men sitting in front got out of the vehicle. Sherlock's legs ached from the cramped position they were in, and he kneed the back of Watson's seat, signaling for him to exit. Soon, all four men were standing in the street, Sherlock glancing wearily to The Doctor. Watson admired the car, a boyish smile of wonder bright on his features. 

“Not bad that,” he said. Soon, another voice called out, and Sherlock tuned in for a startling interaction.

“In the future, there'll be one of those machines in every town in Europe.” Their attentions drew to the tall man speaking, his round belly and wide face greeting them with a haughty expression. 

“Loitering in the wood shed again, are we, Myccie?” At the annoying pet name, Sherlock's widened eyes threw their gaze to The Doctor, whose face was again the epitome of a young boy watching a cruel and clever prank play out. It only served to annoy Sherlock more, knowing that this 'Doctor' knew the endgame of this whole experience, and was choosing to leave him in the dark. As Holmes and Watson conversed with the other man, whom Sherlock could only assume was this universe's 'Mycroft', he approached The Doctor. 

“What is all of this about? Do you intend to have me parade about this place for a specific reason? Or is it simply so you can get a laugh at the odd and, dare I say, alarming situation you've dragged me into?” Sherlock fumed to the man, who sighed with a calm air.

“I told you, it's all to do with Molly. However, I can't tell you much more than the fact that it is important for you to be here, in this world, at this time. Trust me, it'll all make sense soon enough.” The Doctor stepped quickly to follow the others, motioning for Sherlock to do the same. An aggravated huff left him, and he quickly caught up to the rest, listening to the banter between the two brothers. 

'Oh, not banter, a game of deductions. How very predictably cliché, setting up another similarity for me to be baffled by. This is getting ridiculous.' The bitter detective quarreled against the thoughts that grew in amount in his head. He only tuned in when the man who was almost as pompous as his older brother began speaking again. 

“...I shall be forced to attend a ghastly peace summit in Reichenbach.” Mycroft moved along, making rubbish complaints against Switzerland. However, only one word clicked with Sherlock. One word that he recognized all too well. With a quick flash, he was turning and pushing the funny man against the wall.

“I understand now! It's all the same. The people, the cases, Moriarty. It's all the same, and that's why Molly is so important. She's supposed to come and save this Sherlock too. That's why you brought her here after I upset her. Great, I've solved it. We can go back now, and fetch Molly. Wonderful.” Sherlock had let go of The Doctor halfway through his deduction, and was now smiling proudly to himself. The Doctor shook his head, causing Sherlock to pause. 

“You have no clue. You know, for being a so-called 'genius', you're a bit on the slow side, aren't you? Shall we?” He asked, motioning for Sherlock to walk. Sherlock moved, his face contorting into a false smile, before he rolled his eyes and marched on. Just as they reached the inside, his mobile rang. Sherlock's expression was slightly confused, but he pulled the phone from his pocket and answered anyway.

“Hello?”

“Sherlock! Where the bloody hell are you? I told you to...” Whatever John was about to say was cut off as the Doctor plucked the device from Sherlock's hand, quickly ending the call, before tucking it away into his own pocket.

“I beg your pardon!” Sherlock said affronted. This time it was the Doctor who seemed to manhandle the detective.

“Do you not understand the meaning of 1895 London? As in, they have barely discovered the telephone. You cannot interrupt their life with the concept of a mobile device that carries out so many tasks that they haven't even invented yet! Now, you'll get this back at the end of this adventure. If you've been a good boy, that is.” The Doctor patted his side where the phone was now located, and his crooked grin grew just a bit in size at his own joke. 

“Fine. Whatever you say. Now, could you please at least let me in on why it is we are here? I don't mean in London in 1895, I mean here. At this particular place.” Sherlock pointed to the large building, the sound of music and several voices resounding from within the walls.

“Ah, well. We're here for a party!”

OoOo

She had fallen asleep, her hand clutching the old-fashioned mobile in her hand, charging cord sticking from the end of it. With a long sigh, she rolled over, and suddenly remembered what she had been doing before exhaustion and the emotions of her day had caught up to her. Fumbling with the phone, Molly flicked the top portion up, opening the device so she could turn the power on. The bright blue screen lit once again, and this time, it stayed lit.

Taking a heavy breath, Molly went to press the center button, her favourite when it came to calling him. Before her thumb hit the number pad, however, there was a knock at the door. She let out a heavy sigh, and walked toward the door. As she opened it, she was first greeted with the sight of Mary.

“I thought you went home,” Molly started to say, but her mouth clamped shut as she saw John behind the blonde woman.

“Has Sherlock stopped by here at all since I left you?” Mary asked, making her way into the entryway of Molly's flat. The pathologist shook her head, casting a glance to John, who was also making his way inside behind his wife. 

“He's gone missing.” The words left John's mouth with a burdened sigh, and he sent a weak grin in her direction. Molly let out a sigh nearly as deep, and closed the door behind him.

“I'll make us all some tea.”

OoOo

By the time the two were done speaking, and walking inside, the festivities were already underway. That is to say, Watson was already halfway to plastered, gambling with a growing crowd of people in the far corner of the room. Holmes, however, seemed to be having a much more interesting time, considering he was in the middle of chasing a burly man down the hall of the floor just above where they stood. There seemed to be a woman running directly behind him, and Sherlock quickly moved to race back outside when the two men fell through the window. The Doctor stayed put, turning around and allowing a look of amusement to grace his features. The party was just getting started.

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Soooo...that was long awaited. I apologize for the overdue chapter, and I apologize that it's not my best. But I hope you will enjoy what I have for you. I have a feeling things will pick up in pace in the next few chapters, and there's another plot twist coming...so, hope you stick around for that. :D Thanks again to SammyKatz, for not only giving me this prompt, but for having the utmost patience with my slow butt as far as getting this thing written. I love you all so much, and I will see you all soon. (Dear God, I hope it's soon! lol)


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